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Had a little wager with myself this week, regarding whether HBO Max’s new series is about the west London vintage market, a mushroom, or a coastal suburb of Edinburgh. Even spread-betting, I got cleaned out. Portobello is actually the true story of Enzo Tortora, former host of Italy’s top TV show, who was falsely accused of being a member of the Camorra. How was I supposed to guess that?

At its height, Portobello the variety show had a staggering audience of 28 million, a national cross section from nuns to prison inmates. Among the latter, Giovanni Pandico: a froggy-looking Camorrist and clinical paranoid who becomes fixated, Stan-like, on Tortora. He believes he communicates with the presenter via telepathy, as well as mind control of a parrot which guest-stars on the show. Bizarrely, the mob criminal posts Tortora 20 lace doilies to sell on his show (in a segment actually called Portobello Market, which really spun me out).

When the doilies are not returned, Pandico flips. He accuses Tortora of being a drug trafficker for the crime organisation; a baseless accusation which nonetheless sees Tortora arrested, as eager authorities try to put together the trial of the century.

The intersection of celebrity, politics and organised crime is a potent theme, which as promotional material for the show notes, prefigures the rise of Berlusconi and Trump. Despite the 1980s setting, writer-director Marco Bellocchio is turning a mordant eye on our time. I don’t think he likes what he sees.

After he loses his job, we see cameramen from Tortora’s very own station vox-popping members of the public, fatuously gauging opinion on the presenter’s guilt or innocence. The bigwigs have stitched him up, one asserts. He should be on suicide watch, leers another. “Do you have money for a sandwich?” demands another, after declaring Enzo can go to hell because he has too much. (Money not sandwiches, I think. Then again, this is Italy.)

With Tortora’s innocence established, we’re left to other wonderings. What does he make of his life’s work? In flashback, we see him audition acts with touching seriousness. Yet he’s aware of the counter-narrative, referring to Portobello on occasion as “provincial, tear-jerking fluff” and later, “a heap of bullshit.” He doesn’t like being called a TV presenter – he’s a host. He’s also addicted to cocaine and having an affair with a member of the production team. He’s a natural, in other words.

The justice system gets short shrift, with more than a little Kafka in the cookie dough. “What am I accused of?” Tortora asks a police captain on the night of his arrest. “We’re not obligated to inform you,” comes the reply. Facts are restricted by officials who hide behind legalese, yet constantly leak to the press. Tortora’s lawyers have a newsagent set aside daily papers – this being their only access to information, and means of building a defence. The court of public opinion, made literal.

If powerlessness is the point, it robs Tortora of agency. After the briefest prison riot, he spends time shuttling between incarcerations. “Theatre of the absurd” is how he refers to all this. His longueurs are ours. Repetition is a hallmark of bureaucracy, but doesn’t make for explosive TV. One higher octane scene involves the TV staff coaxing the (grieving?) parrot down from a church rafter. Don’t expect Narcos, Ozark or The Night Of. Portobello is about suffering, and the long haul.

The problem is, I’m not. The first episode is a long 72 minutes. The period-authentic brown palette, banda instrumentation, blocky credits font – these don’t scream out for attention as most modern TV does. Unless you’re a cancelled TV presenter, or have a granular interest in the Naples police system, you may get restless too.

Is my brain cooked from being online, or accelerated expectations of drama? Did I want more violence? Would I find it funnier if the parrot swore? Would I have preferred a show about Big Mushroom? Troubling. I can see myself in that vox populi, mouthing off that for a story about a TV host accused of being in a Mafia-style organisation, this was kinda boring, y’know? Don’t judge. Mi prendo la colpa.